


it’s you, the wash of starlight, the old paradox.

by blessed_image (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confessions, Declarations Of Love, Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Indian Harry Potter, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, POV Ron Weasley, Ron Weasley & Hermione Granger Friendship, Sad and Happy, Short & Sweet, Swearing, k i n d a, morons to lovers, not relevant not mentioned just factual, soft idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: They look at eachother properly, it was sad, maybe a little lame, but it wasn’t too early or too late, and perhaps they could work something out. Something just for the two of them, something no one else could come between, something only they could have a say in- because that’s how it could’ve been, all of these years, they could’ve had it all.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	it’s you, the wash of starlight, the old paradox.

Ron was angry, in fact, he was fucking _livid_ \- so much so that he thought he was going to burst at the seams. It’s the only real way he could ever describe how he felt, hands shaking and breath stuttering and eyes watering and throat dry, he was just _so mad_. At the world, at himself, but mainly Harry- Harry fucking Potter and his stupid fucking martyr complex, because the idiot had actually done it. He’d actually managed to ruin every single year ever since they had started Hogwarts, with his ridiculous saviour bullshit and his delicate smiles and his otherworldly ability to make Ron speechless. He’d actually made his life better, brighter, with events that seem so dark and words that appear to be declarations of unimaginable pain- which sounds wrong, but he promises is _right_ , because Harry and Ron and Hermione have been through it all; been through so much that even death was a moment they could look back fondly upon, because at least there was each other. 

Harry had actually made Ron sound mental, but that’s not so much a bad thing as it was admirable. 

Hermione calls him stupid, typical, but he thinks it’s nice. Like the smell of home, or sitting in front of a kind fire with some blankets and someone to hold onto. Harry does that. Makes you warm even though his hands are oddly cold during mid July, makes you take a long, content sigh as he stands next to you in the winter breeze. Ron does feel stupid, though, especially when Harry’s eyes linger too long on some Ravenclaw girl who doesn’t understand how important Harry’s attention really is like Ron does. She doesn’t know what Harry’s bed head looks like, or how soft his hands are despite the years of suffering they’ve touched; she doesn’t know what he sounds like when he’s crying, and she definitely doesn’t realise just how green his eyes are. 

Not even Hermione really knows any of that, he thinks, because she hasn’t spent nearly as many sleepless nights next to the boy- the ones with never-ending nightmares or sweet nothings whispered across the pillow they share sometimes. 

_He really is stupid._

He doesn’t care, because right now Harry is laughing at some off-handed comment Ron just said about Malfoy; and his smile is so blinding that Ron has to take a moment to let it wash over him properly, and the noise he makes when he’s actually enjoying life is something to stop and listen to. It’s so rare, too rare, Ron feels nauseous when he thinks about how rare it is exactly, especially when he realises that he can’t remember the last time he had heard it. When Harry looks questioningly at the grin Ron doesn’t feel like dropping, time passes a little slower. There would be thousands of standstill moments, he thinks, but there’s never going to be another time like now- a time he can really tell the truth, spill his guts and let the blood and tears stain the carpet as the words come tumbling out. Right now, there’s no one dying. No one is injured, no one is crying but Ron is still angry- even if Harry’s laugh made him forget for a moment. So, he looks away, conflicted as to whether or not he should keep being mad that Harry keeps up this fucked up routine of theirs- thanking the oceans for eachother one second, before screaming at eachother for something out of their control. He doesn’t feel like figuring it out, at the minute, and reaches out for Harry’s tie.

The fabric is easy to mould, cut, compress, or fold; not hard or firm to the touch- and just _so Harry_ that he feels a little scorching heat under his skin where his nerves dance and his anticipation sings. 

“You know I’d do anything for you, right?” he asks, licking his lips, but still doesn’t look at him; scared of what he would see exactly, so he stares at the red and gold as he strokes it with his thumb. The question doesn’t need to be answered, and he isn’t necessarily sure if they’re even _is_ an appropriate answer.

“Anything?” Ron didn’t think he had heard is correctly at first, so he lets the silence meet them in the middle- a weird mix of rage and sadness beats rhythmically through his blood. Blinking, he nods, and Harry’s breath is audibly caught in his throat. “That’s rotten work.” 

_Anything_ , _anything at all_ , Ron wants to shout.

“Not to me.” He settles for, but the words feel a little cheesy, like something a novelist would store in the back of their mind for their next copy-and-paste cheap romance. It’s enough for them. “Not if it’s you.” And, now, Harry looks distressed, so Ron stops him from pulling away or replying with something idiotic, “Can I kiss you?” They look at eachother properly, it was sad, maybe a little lame, but it wasn’t too early or too late, and perhaps they could work something out. Something just for the two of them, something no one else could come between, something only they could have a say in- because that’s how it could’ve been, all of these years, they could’ve had it all. Harry nods slowly, and Ron doesn’t even hesitate.

It was brief, and not so much like how those novelists would describe it: there was no world ending, lung-collapsing mystery that had been solved suddenly, and would perhaps be lacklustre in the romantic’s opinions. But it was good. There was something deep, something bubbling beneath the surface- and Harry’s lips were chapped, so much so that Ron thought his own skin was going to get cut by the sharpness of them. They pulled apart just as quick as they came together, and they just blinked at eachother’s pale lips for a few seconds before Harry’s arms grasped at Ron’s shirt collar to pull him back it. 

It was nothing much.   
It was _everything_ he could’ve ever dreamed of. 


End file.
